Alongside the great internet firewall of China, the vicious paranoia of Burma's ruling junta, and the lists of murdered journalists in Sri Lanka, India appears as a beacon of free speech and open-minded self-criticism. And yet, for all the vociferous passion of its journalists and activists in calling the powerful to account, the overall impression is of voices screaming into a vacuum.

Nowhere is this feeling more evident right now than on the issue of the left-wing insurgency raging through India's poorest regions. Under the broadbrush moniker of Maoists or Naxalites, these insurgents represent one of the few forms of resistance for villagers and hill tribes against the inequities of continuing feudal structures and the encroachment of global corporations – backed by the state – who treat them as awkward impediments to mining plans.

The Naxalites can be brutal, and the villagers under their control often find themselves unwillingly cut off from health services, education and development. But they have held on to the moral high ground thanks largely to a state response that has been unremittingly heavy-handed: special forces operations, the arming of vigilante groups, the dispossession of land, forced encampment – all accompanied by tales of extrajudicial killings, rapes and, for some godforsaken reason, the chopping off of children's fingers.

India's civil society looks on in abhorrence at what is widely seen as a full-blown war against the poor. Even the government-appointed Council of Experts had to conclude that: "Often any individual who speaks out against the powerful is dubbed a Naxalite and jailed or otherwise silenced. The search for Naxalite cadre leads to severe harassment and torture of its supporters and sympathisers."

Those who try to report these crimes find themselves bundled away to police custody "for their own protection". This has been happening to Sodi Sambo, a 28-year-old woman from Gompar village in Chattisgarh who says she witnessed security forces murder nine of her neighbours in October 2009, and was herself shot in the foot in front of her two small children. She tried to file a complaint, only to find herself under armed guard in a nearby hospital with no visitors allowed and denied the right to travel to Delhi for treatment.

With Amnesty International and the supreme court wading in, her case might just be heard. A couple of troops might even be reprimanded. In the meantime, the operations will continue. Just a fortnight ago, home minister Palaniappan Chidambaram announced another massive offensive across five states, confidently claiming it would target only insurgent leaders. Since no journalists are allowed anywhere near these war zones, we have to take his word for it.

Which brings us back to the issue of free speech, and also its implications for military strategy. One of the key lessons of modern counter-insurgency is that you have to take the voters – and therefore the media – with you. Militaries have long struggled to balance the rights of a free press with the risk that they might record something that damages its credibility. In the west, this took centre stage in Vietnam, which many in the US military felt was a war fought and lost on the evening news and in the pages of Time magazine.

That thinking has led to embedded journalism, military PR departments – even dedicated YouTube channels – which seek to "sell" the campaign back home and abroad. It has made governments acutely conscious of legitimacy, if not for moral reasons, then at least for its impact on operational effectiveness.

In India, however, there seems to be scant concern for legitimacy in the anti-Naxal campaign beyond flagrant attempts to silence witnesses and bar journalists and activists from affected areas. When it does try to justify itself, the government hides behind the argument that the Maoists are impeding economic development that could improve the lives of the poor – ignoring studies that show this model of development may have actually increased the number of poor by 100 million.

The Naxalite issue shows up a yawning chasm between what civil society says and what government does. The failure to listen means the government is losing not just the battle for hearts and minds, but even the physical fight on which it has focused its efforts. Last year, 319 security forces were killed compared with 219 Maoists – an extraordinary tally given the discrepancy in each side's resources.

The fact is that any number of exposés on the wrongs of this campaign has little or no impact on voters with so many other issues and allegiances to consider. Nor does the government fear the opprobrium of the international community, which is preoccupied with winning India's support in Afghanistan and salivating over her enormous defence budgets. The editor of one leading news publication admitted last week that the media's efforts were having "no political impact".

The most pessimistic conclusion to draw is that free speech in India only serves to strengthen those who flout other articles in the constitution. "How can we be authoritarian," the government can protest, "when we allow the media such freedom to criticise us?" Too often, however, the only victory of expression is its freedom to exist, rather than its power to effect change.

Or we can be more optimistic, and take heart in the strength of ideas to gradually permeate through society and perhaps enthuse a future generation of leaders, tired of a system that stands so apart from the moral conscience embodied in its academics, activists, journalists and ordinary citizens, in whose name the brutal price of progress is paid. The superiority of India's civil society must surely, in time, earn it the influence it deserves.